rushed forward. Instead of striking him on the shoulder, the picador hit him in the belly. Instantly the furious multitude rose on all sides, and the general cry was, "A la carcel! a la carcel! (to prison! to prison !") The vociferations increased, when, instead of ripping up the horse, the bull lifted the man by the thigh and threw him out of his saddle, without touching the steed. "Bravo, toro! bravo!" they cried, "and to prison with the picador!" The poor fellow had his thigh run through; and the hospital alone saved him from the prison. When the severe laws of tauromachies are infringed, the Spanish public is always pitiless. The rights of the bull are rigidly insisted on; and the latter is always pitied when he is struck against the rules.

The bull overthrew five or six horses, and received the banderillas. The connoisseurs had all pronounced him treacherous like his predecessor, when, at the death signal given by a trumpet, a sobresaliente took the matador's sword. By the manner in which this young man handled the muleta, although a novice, I guessed that he did not understand his business, and I confess felt very nervous when I saw him several times pass his hand across his forehead to wipe away the drops of perspiration which ran down his face. The Chiclanero stood near him and encouraged him, but his counsels were useless. A natural but fearful instinct drew the inexperienced matador towards the balustrade; he looked on it as a safeguard, whilst, on the contrary, his peril was increased by being near it, because all means of retreat on that side were cut off from him. At the first thrust, the bull passed so close to the matador, that the latter tottered; at the second, he knocked him down, and running back to him, ran his horn into one of the unfortunate young man's thighs, and nailed him to the barrier. It was a horrid sight, and I am still haunted by that livid man nailed by the bull against the red wood wall, six inches from the ground, and his motionless feet rendered shoeless by a nervous contraction which always

ous.

occurs in such circumstances. The Chiclanero unhesitatingly threw himself on the bull, seized him by the left horn, forced him to loosen his hold, and drew his rage upon himself. He then picked up the sword and muleta, and two seconds later the wounded matador was avenged. The sobresaliente was carried away. Not a drop of blood ran from his thigh. The bull's horn is so burning that it cauterizes as it enters; and it is this which makes these sort of wounds so dangerOn seeing the man carried off fainting, all my blood froze in my veins, and I asked myself if it was not irreligious and inhuman to sanction such tragedies by one's presence. To my great surprise, my neighbours by no means shared my horror. The audience was as indifferent about the wound of the sobresaliente as it had been affected by the danger of the Chiclanero in the first fright. "Why did he meddle with it?" every one exclaimed; "it was not in his way; he should either become a tailor, or boot-maker, or learn his business better." Near me was a young woman with long black eyes, "pale comme un beau soir d'automne," who ogled the spectators rather than the spectacle. At the sight of the wounded man-"que tentito, (what a little fool!") she exclaimed, smothering a gentle yawn with the end of her fan.

The Chiclanero vanquished the next four bulls with such dexterity, that the multitude proclaimed him the second Torero of Spain. His reputation has gone on increasing from that time; and I know more than one aficionado who compares, and even secretly prefers him, to the great Montes himself. No one, however, dares to say this, for it is difficult to force a new name on the public, who for a long while always sacrifices rising genius to an established fame. If parallels may be sought elsewhere, we shall find them in the eternal dispute between Mario and Rubini, Duprez and Nourrit, and so many others. It is however certain, that the Chiclanero, if deficient in the experience of Montes, has more youth, more ele

gance, and more strength. It is rare for him to miss his aim. His sword, directed by an arm of iron, hisses as it enters the bull like a red hot iron plunged into boiling water, whilst the wrist of Montes, several times broken, and already weakened, often fails to second his dexterity. Besides, in growing old, Montes has contraeted habits which distress the true aficionados. He inhabits the environs of Jeres; and the topaz coloured wines produced by the vineyards of his native country are, we are told, far from repugnant to him. He has lost that oriental sobriety he formerly counselled, and without which there is no good matador. An espada to be sure of his hand and eye should drink only water, and is forced to perform regularly every day an exercise to keep up the elasticity of his limbs, like opera dancers. The toreros, however, have been at all times very much the fashion in Spain, where they form a class apart, and a far higher one than might be supposed. Very proud of the consideration they owe to their courage, they are treated familiarly by young men of the highest families, who take lessons in tauromachy of them. It is a good deal the custom in the Peninsula, to learn this dangerous art in the same way as fencing is learnt here, and the lessons are paid for, not in money, but in cigars and dinners. The handsome Duke of Osuna, whose premature death caused such melancholy surprise, was a good matador. Young men of the highest aristocracy frequently appear at private corridas, at which a prince of the blood presides, and no one sees anything to object to in it.

The professional Toreros win and spend much money. Montes, who by exception saves, has, it is said, more than twelve hundred pounds a year. They are seen on the Prado, mounted on handsome horses. At the opera, where they have their stalls by the year, they are known by their Andalusian costume, and a little plait of hair which hangs over the collar of their jacket, and which they must let grow at the back of the head, in order to fasten the necessary bunch of rib

bons to it on bull fight days. They gossip unrestrainedly with the "golden youth" of the boxes. Finally, to give an idea of the consideration they enjoy, it will be sufficient to add, that a few years ago, when Montes had been wounded at the circus of Aranjuez, the king sent his chamberlain daily to inquire after him.

The Spanish public, who insists that a brave bull shall be honoured, demands, on the other hand, that a cowardly bull shall be punished and treated with contempt. An animal who does not venture to rush on the picadorwho does not enter on the lance, as it is technically called, is not considered worthy the sword of a matador. Dogs are set at him, who seize him by the ears, and an inferior torero strikes him behind. Sometimes he is hamstrung by a crescent with a long wooden handle, called the media luna. Then the sight becomes revolting, and is mere butchery. As soon as the danger ceases disgust begins. When the bull is indifferent without being cowardly, and wants exciting, the banderillas are armed with crackers, (banderillas de fuego), which go off against his hide and make him leap about in a state of desperation.

This spectacle, setting

aside these incidents, which recur with no great variation, is always the same, and yet it is never monotonous. No one is ever weary of it; but on the contrary the enthusiasm augments at every fight. This drama is always of intense interest, because it is always real. The life of a man is at stake before you. One day that Montes had to deal with a formidable bull, a comic actor, celebrated at Granada, called out to him-"You turn pale, Montes." "That is true," replied the torero; "it is because this is not one of the lies which you represent, senor Mayguaz, this is reality." This answer explains the interest of these combats. The paleness of the torero is contagious, because it is not made up by paint as at the theatre; and his emotion is shared by the spectators, because it is not assumed.

When I said that the incidents of the corridas were always the same, I went too far, and I will relate an oc

currence which was certified to me by ocular witnesses. A few years ago, the inhabitants of Sevilla read one day with surprise on the bill of the fight this unusual announcement:-"When the third bull has fought the picadores and received three pair of banderillas, a young herdsman who brought him up will appear in the arena. He will approach the bull, caress him, and take out the banderillas one by one, after which he will lie down between his horns." The announcement of so singular an interlude, drew an immense concourse to the circus. The third bull appeared. It was an animal well provided with horns, and very brave. He ripped up four horses in four bounds, received the banderillas, and began to roar. Then, contrary to custom, the lidiadores disappeared, and the bull, remaining alone in the arena, continued trotting about and shaking the bloody javelins over his neck. Suddenly a prolonged whistle was heard. The bull stopped and listened. A second whistle brought him to the barrier. At that moment a young man dressed en majo, jumped into the arena, and called the bull by his name: Mosquito! Mosquito! The animal, recognising his master, came

up to him caressingly and appeased. The herdsman gave him his hand to lick, and with the other scratched him behind the ears in a manner which seemed much to delight the poor beast; then gently taking out the banderillas which tore Mosquito's neck, he made him kneel, and laid himself down on his back, his head between the horns. The grateful bull seemed to listen with delight to some rustic melody the herdsman was singing. The admiration of the multitude, hitherto restrained by surprise, now burst forth with Andalusian vehemence. No one can imagine the screams of joy uttered if they have not seen a plaza de toros. On hearing the frantic applause which had accompanied all his sufferings, the bull, charmed until then, seemed to awake to real life. He suddenly sprung up and bellowed. The herdsman quickly endeavoured to escape, but it was too late. The animal, as if furious at having been betrayed, threw the young man up in the air with his head, received him on his horns, ran him through, trampled on him, and tore him in pieces notwithstanding all the efforts of the chulos. The corrida was suspended, and the consternated public silently quitted the circus.

A FEW days after the arrival in town of the little party from Carbrook, Lord Delamere entered the breakfast room one morning rather later than usual, and with an expression of disquiet which his benignant countenance rarely wore. He held in his hand an open letter. Constance at once recognised Sydney's handwriting, and it required her utmost efforts of self-command to preserve in any degree the appearance of composure.

"Sydney is coming home to-morrow," he said, as he took his place at the breakfast table, and gave the letter

" but I am

he held to Lady Delamere ; sorry to say that he speaks of soon leaving us again, and for a much longer period. He wishes to travel for at least a year before devoting himself to the duties of his profession."

Lady Delamere was occupied, while her husband spoke, in glancing her eye rapidly over the contents of Sydney's letter. An expression of regret shaded the beautiful features of Gertrude, but she did not speak nor raise her eyes. She seemed absorbed by reflections of a mingled character. Constance felt not, cared not, at this mo

ment, had she even known it, that any were observing her, and the penetrating though momentary glance of Vernon, and the tenderly searching one of Mrs Bouverie, were alike unseen.

"I do not regret this plan so much as I fear you do," said Lady Delamere, as she closed the letter and returned it to her husband. "Sydney has laboured very hard for some months, and needs relaxation now. He will devote himself with redoubled zest and ardour to his profession when he returns; and the separation, which to me is the only painful part of his plan, will be short. What do you think of our all spending the next winter together in Italy, whither Sydney I am sure will have directed his steps long ere then, and returning with him in the following spring?"

Why, I like the idea very much," said Lord Delamere, his countenance brightening as he spoke. "I do not in the least object to Sydney's wish, except from the desire you know I always cherish to have all my children near me; but if we join Sydney in autumn, his absence from us will be short; and if we only be altogether, and I see you all happy," he added, looking kindly on the group around him, "I care little whether it be in England or Italy. But you must all go with me," he continued, after a short pause; come, I must collect the votes, and see whether the Ayes' or 'Noes' have it for our purposed emigration. Mr Vernon, what do you say?"

66

"That but for the pleasing duties by which your kindness has for the present bound me here," replied Vernon, I my first wish would have been to accompany my friend.

may

You imagine, therefore, how completely pleasure and duty will be united in my following him with you."

"And I need not tell you how greatly your presence will, to all of us, enhance the pleasure of our proposed excursion," replied Lord Delamere ; indeed I fear that we are very selfish in depriving Sydney, during any part of his tour, of the society of a friend whom he so truly loves and values." Lord Delamere looked and felt gratified. The friendship for his son of a

man so distinguished by talent and piety, formed one strong link in the chain of fascination that Vernon had thrown around him, in common with almost all who approached within the sphere of his influence.

That day seemed to Constance as if it would never pass; yet, when at length it was over, and she retired to her room, it would have been difficult to determine, and she attempted not the task, whether joy or dread prevailed in her anticipations of the morrow.

The evening of the following day had closed ere Sydney arrived. Lady Delamere had sent a note of excuse to a large evening party, to which she and Constance had been engaged, and the family group were left alone.

A chill faintness stole over the senses of Constance as the carriage stopped at the door, and a mist passed before her eyes; but she rallied her almost failing strength, and ere Sydney entered the room, though her cheek was pale, and a death-like coldness had chilled the warm current of her veins, no agitation of manner, no trembling of her low calm voice, betrayed the conflict that was warring in her soul. In a moment her quick sense distinguished Sydney's footstep in the hall. The next Lord Delamere had hastened to meet him, and they ascended the stairs together.

Constance almost started when Sydney entered, for a change that seemed the work of years rather than of weeks, had passed over him since they parted. His joyous tone, his elastic tread, the ardour of feeling, and glow of hope and happiness that so lately had beamed in his countenance, all were gone; and as Constance gazed with a bursting heart upon his pale features, and changed expression, she forgot to think whether or not he were changed to her, and only trembled for his health or for his peace. With even more than his usual tenderness, he met and responded to the greeting of his mother and sisters. A slight flush for a moment tinged his cheek as he approached where Constance stood. He took her hand in his, uttered a few hurried, hardly intelligible words of greeting, and immediately turned away.

The midnight hour had already passed on that first evening of Sydney's return home, when he sought the chamber of his friend. Vernon was engaged in writing when he entered the

room.

"I fear I have disturbed you," said Sydney, "yet if you can spare me half-an-hour, it will not, to me at least, be unprofitably employed. I need your counsel and support now, perhaps more than ever."

"They are ever at your command, my friend," replied Vernon, warmly pressing his hand, as he pushed aside his writing-table, and drew a chair for his friend near the fire. "Would that I could remove the burden that oppresses your heart, by adding it to that of the many that weigh upon mine; though, alas! this exceeds the power even of such affection as I bear you. To soothe, to cheer, and strengthen you, at least is mine, and sheds a brightening ray over my often dark and cloudy path."

66

May heaven reward your faithful friendship, Vernon," said Sydney, in a tone of deep feeling, "it is almost the only thing on earth that sustains me now. How has your presence supported me to-night under the dreadful conflict awakened by again beholding her whom I never now may hope to call my own."

non,

"Be strong, be yourself but for a few days longer, my friend,” said Ver"and the conflict will soon be She is not worthy of you, Syd. ney. Could your deep heart find repose in one so light and vain ?"

over.

"Hush, Vernon," said Sydney, in a tone of suppressed agitation, "I cannot bear to hear you speak thus. Oh that any other cause had separated us ! I could have borne even to have seen her the wife of another, might I but have continued to esteem and admire her as once I did. But are you sure, Vernon," he continued after a short pause, "is it not possible that you may have mistaken her? Surely that speaking countenance cannot hide a vain and worldly heart."

Vernon only replied by placing in Sydney's hand a note written in beautiful female characters. Sydney start

ed, for he at once recognised the handwriting of Constance. The varied expression of emotions that seemed to have little to do with each other, marked his countenance as he read its contents. Anguish, tenderness, and contempt, alternately struggled for the mastery.

My dear Mr Vernon, I fully appreciate the motives of your kind defence of your friend's conduct; but I have tried in vain to regard it in any other light than that in which it first presented itself to my mind. I do not, would not call him dishonourable, but I feel that one who made use of the means which he has adopted, to work upon the feelings of an inexperienced girl, would not scruple to employ, with persevering assiduity, every means of a similar nature that could afford a hope of ultimate success. With this conviction, though I try to school my heart to the lessons of charity that you habitually inculcate, I cannot look forward to the renewal of my intercourse with my cousin, with any other feelings than those of anticipated annoyance and disquiet. I would have complied with your kind advice to answer his letter, did I not feel that my silence is the mildest form in which I could reply to it. Believe me, with feelings of the most sincere esteem, yours faithfully, Constance Lindsay."

For a few moments Sydney's eyes dwelt on the page he held, with a fixed yet half unconscious gaze. He then slowly folded the paper, replaced it in its envelope, and laid it on the table, and a deep sigh, significant of the last conflict of expiring hope, burst from his lips.

"And she shewed you my letter," enquired Sydney at last, " and asked your advice regarding her reply to it ?"

"She shewed me your letter indeed," replied Vernon, "but I can hardly say that she asked my advice regarding her reply, for her decision seemed formed ere she spoke. I entered the breakfast-parlour one morning at a somewhat earlier hour than usual, when I found it already occupied by Miss Lyndsay. She held an open letter in her hand, which I at once recog